The Project Gutenberg EBook of Stories from the Trenches, by Carleton B. CaseThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll haveto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.Title: Stories from the TrenchesHumorous and Lively Doings of Our 'Boys Over There'Author: Carleton B. CaseRelease Date: August 8, 2015 [EBook #49653]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES FROM THE TRENCHES ***Produced by Brian Coe. Emmy and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by theLibrary of Congress)STORIES FROM THE TRENCHES_Humorous and Lively Doings of Our Boys Over There_Gathered From Authentic SourcesBYCARLETON B. CASESHREWESBURY PUBLISHING CO.CHICAGOCopyright, 1918, bySHREWESBURY PUBLISHING CO.TABLE OF CONTENTSThe Man Who Came BackFranco-Yanko RomancesTrench SuperstitionsIn the Trail of the HunWhen Ace Lufbery Bagged No. 13Life at the FrontThe Fiddlers Truce at ArrasHarry Lauder Does His BitKing George Under FireStory of Our First ShotStories from the FrontUncle Sam, DetectiveDidnt Raise His Boy to Be a SlackerThe 100-Pound Terror of the AirThe Watch-Dogs of the TrenchesGeneral Bell Redeems His PromiseLetters from the FrontMeet Tommy, D. C. Medal ManGerman Falcon Killed in Air DuelHe Taught the Tank to Prowl and SlayTaking Moving Pictures Under Shell-fireWeighty Measures Involving Uncle Sams NavyEnlisted Men Tell Why They Joined the ArmyTommy Atkins, Rain-soaked and War-worn, Still GrinsSomething New for the MarinesPAGE51425304147555763687175869096101105114119122128137142146150STORIES FROM THE TRENCHESTHE MAN WHO CAME BACKONE of the strangest of the many personal romances which the war hasbrought is the tale of a man who, dismissed from the British Armyby court martial, redeemed himself through service with that mostheterogeneous of organizations, the French Foreign Legion. His name wasJohn F. Elkington, and he had held an honored post for more than thirtyyears. Then, just as his regiment, in the closing months of 1914, wasgoing into the fighting on the Western front, he was cashiered for anunrevealed error and deprived of the opportunity to serve his country.Heavy with disgrace, he disappeared, and for a long time no one knewwhat had become of him. Some even went so far as to surmise that he hadcommitted suicide, until finally he turned up as an enlisted soldier inthe Foreign Legion. In their ranks he went into the conflict to redeemhimself. Today, says the New York _Herald_, he is back in England. Hewill never fight again, for he has practically lost the use of hisknees from wounds. But he is perhaps the happiest man in England, andthe account tells why, explaining:Pinned on his breast are two of the coveted honors of FrancetheMilitary Medal and the Military Crossbut most valued possession ofall is a bit of paper which obliterates the errors of the pastaproclamation from the official London _Gazette_ announcing that theKing has graciously approved the reinstatement of John Ford Elkingtonin the rank of lieutenant-colonel, with his previous seniority, inconsequence of his gallant conduct while serving in the ranks of theForeign Legion of the French Army.Not only has Colonel Elkington been restored to the Army, but he hasbeen reappointed in his old regiment, the Royal Warwickshires, in whichhis father served before him.In the same London _Gazette_, at the end of October, 1914, had appearedthe crushing announcement that Elkington had been cashiered by sentenceof general court martial. What his error was did not appear at thetime, and has not been alluded to in his returned hour of honor. Itwas a court martial at the front at a time when the first rush of warwas engulfing Europe and little time could be wasted upon an incidentof that sort. The charge, it is now stated, did not reflect in any wayupon the officers personal courage.But with fallen fortunes he passed quietly out of the Army and enlistedin the Legionthat corps where thousands of brave but broken men havefound a shelter, and now and then an opportunity to make themselveswhole again.Colonel Elkington did not pass unscathed through fire. His fightingdays are ended. His knees are shattered and he walks heavily upon twosticks.They are just fragments from France, he said of those wounded knees,and smiled in happy reminiscence of all they meant.It is wonderful to feel, said Colonel Elkington, that once again Ihave the confidence of my King and my country. I am afraid my career inthe field is ended, but I must not complain.Colonel Elkington made no attempt to cloak his name or his former Armyservice when he entered the ranks of the Legion.Why shouldnt I be a private? he asked. It is an honor for any manto serve in the ranks of that famous corps. Like many of the otherboys, I had a debt to pay. Now it is paid.The press of London is unanimous in welcoming the old soldier backinto his former rank. One of them, _The Evening Standard_, containsthe account of how he went about enlisting for France when he saw hewould best leave London. It is written by a personal friend of ColonelElkington, with all the vividness and sympathy of an actual observer ofthe incidents detailed. We are told:Late in October, 1914, I met him, his Army career apparently ruined.He had told the truth, which told against him; but in the moment whenmany men would have sunk, broken and despairing, he bore himself as hewas and as he is today, a very gallant gentleman. He had been cashieredand dismissed from the service for conduct which, in the judgment ofthe court martial, rendered him unfit and incapable of serving hissovereign in the future in any military capacity. The London _Gazette_came out on October 14, 1914, recording the fact, and it became knownto his many friends. For over thirty years he had served, and fordistinguished service wore the Queens medal with four clasps afterthe Boer War. He went to France with the Royal Warwickshire Regiment atthe outbreak of this conflict. His chance had come after twenty-eightyears.During the first terrible two months he had done splendid work. Amoment sufficient to try the discretion of any officer arrived. Hemade his mistake. He told his story to the general court martial. Hevanishedhome; and the London _Gazette_ had the following War-Officeannouncement:Royal Warwickshire Regiment.Lieutenant-Colonel John F. Elkington iscashiered by sentence of a general court martial. Dated September 14,1914.He recognized at once, as he sat with me, what this meant. We chattedabout various projects, and at last he said, There is still theForeign Legion. What do you say?Being acquainted with it, I told him what I knew; how it was therefuge for men of broken reputations; how it contained Italians,Germans, Englishmen, Russians, and others who had broken or shatteredcareers; the way to set about joining it by going to the recruitingoffice at; how the only requirement was physical fitness; that noquestions would be asked; that I doubted if he would like all hiscomrades; that the discipline was very severe; that he might be sentto Algiers; that he would find all kinds of men in this flotsammen ofeducation and culture, perhaps scoundrels and blackguards as well; buthe would soon discover perfect discipline.Now for a man of his age to smile as he did, to set out on the bottomrung of the ladder as a ranker in a strange army, among strangers,leaving all behind him that he held dear, was a great act of moralcourage. We heard of him at intervals, but such messages as dribbledthrough to his friends were laconic. We heard also he had been at thisplace and that, and that he was well and apparently doing well. Thathe had been repeatedly in serious action of recent months we alsoknew, and then came the news that he had won the coveted _MdaillMilitaire_and more, that it was for gallant service. A curiousdistinction it is in some ways. Any meritorious service may win it;but not all ranks can get it. A _generalissimo_ like General Joffreor Sir Douglas Haig may wear it for high strategy and tactics, and anon-commissioned officer or private may win and wear it for gallantryor other distinction. But no officer below a _generalissimo_ can gainit. This distinction Elkington won. We all felt he had made good in theLegion, where death is near at all times, and we waited.Todays _Gazette_ announcement has given all who knew him the greatestpleasure. He has told none of them for what particular act he receivedthe coveted medaljust like Jack Elkingtons modesty.But, as soon as he arrived home in England, the interviewers wentafter him hot and heavy. He found it all very boresome, for, nowthat the affair was over, he could see no use in talking about iteverybody. A reporter for _The Daily Chronicle_, however, managedget what is probably the most satisfactory interview with him andwhich shows to best advantage the peculiar psychology of this manhas experienced so many different sides of life. The interviewer,telling of their conversation, portrays the Colonel as saying:totoonewhoinComplaint? Good Lord, no! The whole thing was my own fault. I gotwhat I deserved, and I had no kick against anyone. It was just Carryon!Brave words from a brave mana man who has proved his bravery andworth in what surely were as heartrending circumstances as ever anyman had to face. My first sight of the Man Who Has Made Good was as hedescended the stairs, painfully and with the aid of two sticks, intothe hall of his lovely old home by the river at Pangbourne. It is ahouse which the great Warren Hastings once called home also.Very genial, very content, I found the man whose name today is oneveryones lips; but very reticent also, with the reticence natural tothe brave man who has achieved his aim and, having achieved it, doesnot wish it talked of.And now, I suggested, you have again got what you deserve?Colonel Elkington drew a long breath. I hope so, he said, at length,very quietly. I have got my name back again, I hope cleared. That iswhat a man would care for most, isnt it?There is always a place in the Foreign Legion for someone who is downin the world, he told me. Directly after the court martial, when theresult appeared in the papers, I said I must do something; that I couldnot sit at home doing nothing, and that as I could not serve England Iwould serve France. Yes, I did offer my services again to England, butit is military law that no man who has been cashiered can be employedagain for the King while the sentence stands. So there was nothing forit but the Foreign Legionthat home for the fallen man.Of that strange and famous corps Colonel Elkington cannot speak withouta glint of pride in his keen blue eyes. Splendid men, the best in theworld, he calls them, and every one was as kind as possible to me.Many there were who had become legionaries because they, too, hadfailed elsewhere, lost dogs like myself, the Colonel called them;but the majority of the men with whom he served were there becausethere was fighting to be done, because fighting was second nature tothem, and because there was a cause to be fought for. The officers hedescribes as the nicest fellows in the world and splendid leaders.When Colonel Elkington first joined there were many Englishmen includedin its ranks, but most of these subsequently transferred to Britishregiments. He enlisted in his own name, but none knew his story, andoften he was questioned as to his reason for not transferringand Ihad to pitch them the tale.He kept away from British soldiers as much as possible, but one daysomeone shouted my name. I remember I was just about to wash in astream when a staff motor drove by and an officer waved his hand andcalled out. But I pretended not to hear and turned away....I dont think that the men in the Legion fear anything, he said. Inever saw such men, and I think in the attack at Champaigne they wereperfectly wonderful. I never saw such a cool lot in my life as whenthey went forward to face the German fire then. It was a great fight;they were all out for blood, and, though they were almost cut up there,they got the German trenches.The time he was recognized, as detailed above, was the only one. At noother time did any of his comrades suspect his identity, or else, ifthey did, they were consideration itself in keeping it to themselves.Of this recognition and some of his subsequent experiences, the London_Times_ remarks, speaking of its own interview with him:It was the only voice from the past that came to him, and he took it assuch. A few minutes afterward he was stepping it out heel and toe alongthe dusty road, a private in the Legion.Shot in the leg, Colonel Elkington spent ten months in hospital andeight months on his back. This was in the Hpital Civil at Grenoble.He could not say enough for the wonderful treatment that was given himthere. They fought to save his life, and when they had won that fight,they started to save his leg from amputation. The head of the hospitalwas a Major Termier, a splendid surgeon, and he operated eight timesand finally succeeded in saving the damaged limb. When he was first inhospital neither the patients nor any of the hospital staff knew whathe was or what he had done. Elkington himself got an inkling of hisgood fortune at Christmas when he heard of his recommendation for the_Croix de Guerre_.Perhaps that helped me to get better, he said. The medals are overthere on the mantelpiece. I went over to where there were two glasscases hanging on the wall. No, not those; those are my fathers and mygrandfathers. He showed me the medals, and on the ribbon of the crossthere was the little bronze palm-branch which doubles the worth of themedal.When he was wounded Dr. Wheeler gave him a stiff dose of laudanum, buthe lay for thirteen hours until he saw a French patrol passing. He wasthen 100 yards short of the German second line of trenches, for thiswas in the Champaigne Battle, on September 28, when the French made amagnificent advance.It was difficult to get Colonel Elkington to talk about himself. As hiswife says, he has a horror of advertisement, and a photographer whoambushed him outside his own lodge-gates yesterday made him feel morenervous than when he was charging for the machine gun that wounded him.To say he was happy would be to write a platitude. He is the happiestman in England. He is now recuperating and receiving treatment, and hehopes that he will soon be able to walk more than the 100 yards thattaxes his strength to the utmost at present.FOUR TO THE GOODIn times of peace Smith might have been an author who had drifted intosome useful occupation, such as that of a blacksmith, but just now heis cook to the Blankshire officers mess. Smith sent Murphy into thevillage to bring home some chickens ordered for the mess.Murphy, said Smith, the next day, when you fetch me chickens again,see that they are fastened up properly. That lot you fetched yesterdayall got loose, and though I scoured the village I only managed tosecure ten of them.Sh! said Murphy. I only brought six.FRANCO-YANKO ROMANCESTHE story is told of a British Tommy who could not make up his mindwhether to acquire a farm or a village store, by marriage, somewherein France. He could have either, but not both. Dispatches say that thebanns have already been read for some of our Sammies, and when thewar is over France will have some sturdy Yankee citizens. Difference oflanguage seems to form no bar; in fact, the kindly efforts of each tolearn the language of the other acts as an aid. It must be said thatthe British, so far, have rather the best of it. They have beaten theYankees to the altar of Hymen, but they had the field to themselves forsome time. By the end of the war the Americans may have caught up, forlove and war have always walked hand in hand with Uncle Sams boys.Nevertheless the British have a big start, for Judson C. Welliver,writing to the New York _Sun_ from Paris, says that in Calais hundredsof young English mechanics have married French girls. The writer tellsof being accosted by a young man from the States at the corner of theAvenue de lOpra and one of those funny little crooked streets thatrun into it. Breezily the American introduced himself and said:Say, do you happen to know a little caffy right around here calledthetheblame it, I cant even remember what that sign looked like itwas trying to spell.I admitted that the description was a trifle too vague to fit into mygeographic scheme of Paris.Because, he went on, theres a girl there that talks United States,and shes been waiting on me lately. I get all the best of everythingthere and dont eat anywhere else. But this morning I took a walk andcoming from a new direction I cant locate the place. I promised herId be in for breakfast this morning.Something nifty? I ventured, being willing to encourage that line ofconversation. Whereat he plainly bridled:Shes a nice girl, he said; family were real people before the war.Learned to talk United States in England; went to school there awhile.Why, she wouldnt let me walk home with her last night, but said maybeshe would tonight.There isnt anybody quite so adaptable as the young Frenchwoman.Only in the last few months has Paris seen any considerable numberof English-speaking soldiers, because earlier in the war the Britishmilitary authorities kept their men pretty religiously away from thealleged temptations of the gay capital. Later they discovered thatParis was rather a better place than London for the men to go.So the French girls, in shops and cafs, have been learning Englishrecently at an astounding rate. They began the study because of theEnglish invasion; they have continued it with increased zeal becausesince the Americans have been coming it has been profitable.To be able to say Atta boy! in prompt and sympathetic response toHam and eggs is worth 50 centimes at the lowest. The capacity tomanage a little casual conversation and give a direction on the streetis certain to draw a franc.Besides, there arent going to be so many men left, after the war, inFrance!Mademoiselle, figuring that there are a couple of million Britishers inthe country and a million or maybe two of Americans coming, has her ownviews about the prospect that the next generation Frenchwomen may beold maids.In Calais there is a big industrial establishment to which the Britishmilitary authorities have brought great numbers of skilled mechanicsto make repairs to machinery, reconstruct the outworn war-gear, tinkerobstreperous motor-vehicles, and, in short, keep the whole machineryand construction side of the war going. Most of the mechanics who weresent there were young men.Calais testifies to the ability of the Frenchwomen to make the mostof their attractions. English officers tell me that hundreds of youngEnglishmen settled in Calais for the duration have married Frenchgirls and settled into homes. They intend, in a large proportion ofcases, to remain there, too.The same thing is going on in Boulogne, which is to all intents andpurposes nowadays as much an English as a French port. EverywhereEnglish is spoken and by nobody is it learned so quickly as by theyoung women.Frenchwomen have always had the reputation of making themselvesagreeable to visiting men, but one is quite astonished to learn thenumber of Englishmen who married Frenchwomen even before the war. Thebalance is a little imperfect, for the records show that there are notnearly as many Frenchmen marrying English girls. But, says the writerin the _Sun_, a new generation of girls of marriageable age has arrivedwith the war, and:Not only in the military, industrial, and naval base towns are theBritish marrying these Frenchwomen, but even in the country nearer thefront. There are incipient romances afoot behind every mile of thetrench-line.Two related changes in French life are coming with the war which makethese international marriages easier. Both relate to the _dot_ [dowry]system. On the one side there are many French girls who have lost their_dots_ and have small prospect of reacquiring the marriage portion. Tolive in these strenuous times is about all they can hope for. For thesethe free-handed Americans, Canadians, and Australians look like goodprospects for a well-to-do marriage.Even the British Tommy, though he enjoys no such income as theAmericans and colonials, is nevertheless quite likely to have a bitof private income from the folks back in Blighty to supplementthe meager pay he draws. The portionless French maid sees in theseprosperous young men who have come to fight for her country not onlythe saviors of the nation, but a possibility of emancipation from the_dot_ system that has broken down in these times.On the other side, there are more than a few young women in France whomust be rated good catches to-day, though their _dots_ would havebeen unimportant before the war. A girl who has inherited the littleproperty of her family, because father and brothers all lie beneath thewhite crosses along the Marne, not infrequently finds herself possessedof a little fortune she could never have expected under otherconditions. Many of these, likewise, bereft of sweethearts as wellas relatives, have been married to English and colonial soldiers orworkmen; and pretty soon we will be learning that their partiality forAmericafor there is such a partiality, and it is a decided onewill beresponsible for many alliances in that direction.How it will all work out in the end is only to be guessed at as yet.The British officers who have been observing these Anglo-Frenchromances for a long time assert that the British Tommy who weds aFrenchwoman is quite likely to settle in France; particularly if hisbride brings him a village house or a few hectares of land in thecountry.On the other hand, the colonials insist on taking their French bridesback to New Zealand or Canada, or wherever it may beIndia, Shanghai,somewhere in Africano matter, the colonial is a colonial forever; hehas no idea of going back to the cramped conditions of England. Helikes the motherland, all right, is willing to fight for it, but wantsroom to swing a bull by the tail, and that isnt to be had in England,he assures you.Probably the Americans will be like the colonials; those who findFrench wives will take them home after the war. That a good many ofthem will marry French wives can hardly be doubted.Yes, the French girls like the American boys. But there is anotherscene. It is that of the country billet, which varies from a chteauto a cellar, the ideal onefrom the point of view of a billetingofficerbeing a bed for every officer, and nice clean straw for themen. Get this picture of Our Village, Somewhere in France, back ofthe line, as drawn by Sterling Hielig in the Los Angeles _Times:_A French valley full of empty villages, close to the fighting line. Nocity of tents. No mass of shack constructions. The village streets areempty. Geese and ducks waddle to the pond in Main Street.It is 4 oclock a. m.Bugle!Up and down the valley, in the empty villages, there is amoving-picture transformation. The streets are alive with Americansoldierstumbling out of village dwelling-houses!Every house is full of boarders. Every village family has given,joyfully, one, two, three of its best rooms for the cot beds of theAmericans! Barns and wagon-houses are transformed to dormitories. Theyare learning French. They are adopted by the family. Sammys in thekitchen with the mother and the daughter.Bugle!They are piling down the main street to their own Americanbreakfastcooked in the open, eaten in the open, this fine weather.In front of houses are canvas reservoirs of filtered drinking-water.The duck pond in Main street is being lined with cement. The streetsare swept every morning. There are flowers. The village was alwayspicturesque. Now it is beautiful.Chaplains clubs are set up in empty houses. The only large tentis that of the Y. M. C. A.; and it is _camouflaged_ against enemyobservers by being painted in streaked gray-green-brown, to melt intothe colors of the hill against which it is backed up, practicallyinvisible. Its canteen on wheels is loaded with towels, soap,razors, chocolate, crackers, games, newspapers, novels, and tobacco.At cross-roads, little flat Y. M. C. A. tents (painted grass andearth color) serve as stations for swift autos carrying packages andcomforts. In them are found coffee, tea, and chocolate, ink, pens,letter-paper, and envelopes; and a big sign reminds Sammy that YouPromised Your Mother a Letter, Write It Today!All decent and in order. Otherwise the men could never have gonethrough the strenuous coaching for the front so quickly and well.In Our Village, not a duck or goose or chicken has failed to respondto the roll call in the past forty dayswhich is more than can be saidof a French company billet, or many a British.Fruit hung red and yellow in the orchards till the gathering. I dontsay the families had as many bushels as a good year; but there is nocriticism.In a word, Sammy has good manners. He looks on these French people witha sort of awed compassion. They had a lot to stand! he whispers. Andthe villagers, who are no fools (as wily as a villager, runs theFrench proverb), quite appreciate these fine shades. And the house dogwags his tail at the sight of khaki, as the boys come loafing in thecool of the back yard after midday dinner.In the evening the family play cards in the kitchen, and here noeffort is necessary to induce the girls to learn English, for, thoughthey pretend that they are teaching French, they are reallyveryslylypicking up English while they are being introduced to themysteries of draw-poker. Says the writer in _The Times:_So, it goes like this when they play poker in the kitchenthe oldFrench father, the pretty daughter, the flapper girl cousin, andthree roughnecks. (One boy has the sheets of Conversational Frenchin Twenty Days, and really thinks that he is conversing_Madame_,_mademoiselle_, _maman_, _monsieur_, _papa_, or _mon oncle_, pass thebuck and get busy!)You will haf carts, how man-ny? (business.) Tree carts, fife carts,ou-one cart, no cart, an zee dee-laire seex carts!Here, Bill, wakeup!Beel sleep! _Avez-vous sommeil_, Beel?_Oui_, mademoiselle, Islept rotten last night, I mean I was _tray jenny parske_ that darnedengine was pumping up the duck pondSpeak French!Play cards!_Vingt-cinq!__Et dix!_ _Et encorefive cen-times._ Im broke. Just slip me a quarter, Wilfred, to buy_jet-toms_! And a sweet and plaintive voice: I haf tree paire, _mononcle_, an he say skee-doo, I am stung-ed. I haf seex carts!Yes,youre out of it, Im sorry, mademoiselle. Come up! Kom opp? Comment,kom opp?Stung-ed has become French. Thus does Sammy enrich the language ofVoltaire. His influence works equally on pronunciation. There is atiny French village named Hingeson which hinges the following. Fromthe days of Jeanne dArc, the natives have pronounced it Anjs, inone syllable, with the sound of a as in ham; but Sammy, naturally,pronounces it hinges, as it is spelled, one hinge, two hinges on thedoor or window. So, the natives, deeming that such godlings cant bewrong on any detail, go about, now, showing off their knowledge tothe ignorant, and saying, with a point of affection: I have been toInjes!I should not wonder if some of these boys would marry. They might doworse. The old man owns 218 acres and nobody knows what ConvertedFrench Fives. Sammy, too, has money. A single regiment of Americanmarines has subscribed for $60,000 worth of French war-bonds sincetheir arrival in the zonethis, in spite of their depositing most oftheir money with the United States Government.Sammy sits in the group around the front door in the twilight. Up anddown the main street are a hundred such mixed groups. Already he hasfound a place, a family. He is somebody.And what American lad ever sat in such a group at such a time without adesire to sing? And little difference does it make whether the song besentimental or rag; sing he must, and sing he does. The old-timers likeI Was Seeing Nellie Home and Down by the Old Mill Stream proved tobe the favorites of the listening French girls. For they will listen bythe hour to the soldiers choruses. They do not sing much themselves,for too many of their young men are dead. But, finally, when the realwar-songs arrived, they would join timidly in the chorus, Hep, hep,hep! and Slopping Through Belgium electrified the natives, and _TheTimes_ says:To hear a pretty French girl singing Epp, epp, epp! is about thelimit.Singing is fostered by the high command. Who can estimate the influenceof Tipperary? To me, American civilian in Paris, its mere melodywill always stir those noble sentiments we felt as the first woundedEnglish came to the American Ambulance Hospital of Neuilly. For manya year to come Tipperary will make British eyes wet, when, in thewitching hour of twilight, it evokes the khaki figures in the glare ofthe sky-line and the dead who are unforgotten!Who can estimate, for France, the influence of that terrible song ofVerdun_Passeront pas!_ Or who can forget the goose-step march todeath of the Prussian Guard at Ypres, intoning _Deutschland UberAlles!_It is desired that the American Army be a singing army! So ran thefirst words of a communication to the American public of Paris, askingfor three thousand copies of The Battle Hymn of the Republicnoblemarching strophes of Julia Ward Howe, which 18641865 fired the heartsof the Northern armies in 1864-1865.Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!...They are heard now on the American front in France. One regiment hasadopted it as our marching song, in memory of the American martyrs ofLiberty. And in Our Village, you may hear a noble French translationof it, torn off by inspired French grandmothers!I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;I have read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps;His day is marching on.Bear with me to hear three lines of this notable translation. Againthey are by a woman, Charlotte Holmes Crawford, of whom I had neverpreviously heard mention. They are word for word, vibrating!_Je Lai entrevu Qui planait sur le cercle large des camps,On a rig Son autel par les tristes et mornes champs,Jai relu Son juste jugement la flamme des feux flambants,Son jour, Son jour sapproche!_Its rather serious, you say? Rather solemn?Sammy doesnt think so.*****CUTE, WASNT SHE?He was a young subaltern. One evening the pretty nurse had justfinished making him comfortable for the night, and before going offduty asked: Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?Dear little Two Stars replied: Well, yes! I should like very much tobe kissed good-night.Nurse rustled to the door. Just wait till I call the orderly, shesaid. He does all the rough work here.*****EVERY ONE TO HIS TASTEVisitorIts a terrible war, this, young mana terrible war.Mike (badly wounded)Tis that, sora tirrible warr. But tis betterthan no warr at all.TRENCH SUPERSTITIONSIT is told in the chronicles of The White Company how the veteranEnglish archer, Samkin Aylward, was discovered by his comrades onefoggy morning sharpening his sword and preparing his arrows and armorfor battle. He had dreamed of a red cow, he announced.You may laugh, said he, but I only know that on the night beforeCrcy, before Poitiers, and before the great sea battle at Winchester,I dreamed of a red cow. To-night the dream came to me again, and I amputting a very keen edge on my sword.Soldiers do not seem to have changed in the last five hundred years,for Tommy Atkins and his brother the _poilu_ have warnings andsuperstitions fully as strange as Samkins. Some of these superstitionsare the little beliefs of peace given a new force by constant peril,such as the notion common to the soldier and the American drummer thatit is unlucky to light three cigars with one match; other presentimentsappear to have grown up since the war began. In a recent magazinetwo poems were published dealing with the most dramatic of thesetheComrade in White who appears after every severe battle to succor thewounded. Dozens have seen him, and would not take it kindly if yousuggested they thought they saw him. They are sure of it. The idea ofthe callthe warning of impending deathis firmly believed along theoutskirts of No Mans Land. Let us quote some illustrations from theCincinnati _Times_:I could give you the names of half a dozen men of my own company whohave had the call, said Daniel W. King, the young Harvard man, who wastransferred from the Foreign Legion to a line regiment; just in time togo through the entire battle of Verdun. I have never known it to fail.It always means death.Two men were quartered in an old stable in shell-range of the front.As they went to their quarters one of them asked the other to selectanother place in which to sleep that night. It was bitterly cold andthe stable had been riddled by previous fire, and the army blanketunder such conditions seems as light as it seems heavy when its owneris on a route march.Why not roll up together? said the other man. That way we can bothkeep warm.No, said the first man. I shall be killed to-night.The man who had received the warning went into the upper part of thestable, the other pointing out in utter unbelief of the validity of acall that the lower part was the warmer, and that if his friend werekilled it would make no difference whether his death chamber werewarm or cold. A shell came through the roof at midnight. It was adudwhich is to say that it did not explode. The man who had beenwarned was killed by it. If it had exploded the other would probablyhave been killed likewise. As it was he was not harmed.A few days ago the chief of an aeroplane section at the front felt apremonition of death. He was known to all the army for his utterlyreckless daring. He liked to boast of the number of men who had beenkilled out of his section. He was always the first to get away on abombing expedition and the last to return. He had received at least onedecorationaccompanied by a reprimandfor flying over the German linesin order to bring down a _Fokker_.I have written my letters, he said to his lieutenant. When you hearof my death, send them on.The lieutenant laughed at him. That sector of the line was quiet, hepointed out. No German machine had been in the air for days. He mighthave been justified in his premonition, the lieutenant said, on anyday of three months past. But now he was in not so much danger as hemight be in Paris from the taxicabs. That day a general visited theheadquarters and the chief went up in a new machine to demonstrate it.Something broke when he was three thousand feet high and the machinefell sidewise like a stone.It is possible, say the soldiers, to keep bad fortune from following anomen by the use of the proper talisman. The rabbits foot is unknown,but it is said that a gold coin has much the same effectwhy, no oneseems to know. A rabbits foot, of course, must be from the left hindleg, otherwise it is good for nothing, and according to a _poilu_ theefficacy of the gold piece depends upon whether or no it puts the maninto touch with his star. It is said in the New York _Sun_:Gold coins are a mascot in the front lines, a superstition notdifficult to explain. It was at first believed that wounded men on whomsome gold was found would be better looked after by those who foundthem, and by degrees the belief grew up, especially among artillery,that a gold coin was a talisman against being mutilated if they weretaken prisoners, whether wounded or not.The Governments appeals to have gold sent to the Banknot to let it fall into enemy hands in case of capturereduced the amount of gold at the front, but many keepcharm. Many men sew coins touching one another in sucha shield over the heart.of France andhas sincesome coins as aa way as to makeEvery man has his own particular star, a Lyons farm hand said toApollinaire, but he must know it. A gold coin is the only means to putyou in communication with your star, so that its protecting virtue canbe exercised. I have a piece of gold and so am easy in my mind I shallnever be touched. As a matter of fact he was seriously wounded later.Perhaps he lost his gold-piece!_The Sun_ relates another story which indicates the belief that ifthe man does not himself believe that he had a true call he will besaved. It is possible to fool the Unseen Powers, to pull wool overtheir eyes. To dream of an auto-bus has become a token of death,attested by the experience of at least four front-line regiments. Andyet a sergeant succeeded in saving the life of a man who had dreamed ofan auto-bus by the use of a clever ruseor lie, if you prefer. As theanecdote is told in _The Sun_:A corporal said he had dreamed of an auto-bus. How can that be,the sergeant asked, when you have never been to Paris or seen anauto-bus? The corporal described the vision. That an auto-bus!declared the sergeant, although the description was perfect. Why,thats one of those new machines that the English are using. Dont letthat worry you! He didnt, and lived!A regiment from the south has the same belief about an automobile lorry.But, unfortunately for the scientifically minded, a disbelief in omensdoes not preserve the skeptic from their consequences. On the contrary,he who flies in the face of Providence by being the third to get alight from one match is certain of speedy death. _The Sun_ continues:Apollinaire tells how he was invited to mess with a friend, SecondLieutenant Franois V, how this superstition was discussed andlaughed at by Franois V, and how Franois V happened to be thethird to light his cigaret with the same match.The morning after, Franois V was killed five or six miles from thefront lines by a German shell. It appears that the superstition is thatthe death is always of this nature, as Apollinaire quotes a captain ofa mixed _tirailleur_ and _zouave_ regiment as saying:It is not so much the death that follows, as death no longer is adread to anyone, but it has been noticed that it is always a uselessform of death. A shell splinter in the trenches or, at best, in therear, which has nothing heroic about it, if there is anything in thiswar which is not heroic.IN THE TRAIL OF THE HUNWAR has become so much a part of the life of the French peasantsthat they have little fear under fire. Frenchmen over military ageand Frenchwomen pursue their ordinary avocations with little concernfor exploding shells. To be sure, it is something of a nuisance, butchildren play while their mothers work at the tub washing soldierclothing. And as the Allied armies advance, wresting a mile or two ofterritory from the enemy at each stroke, the peasant follows with hisplow less than a mile behind the lines. War has become a part of theirlives. Newman Flower, of _Cassells Magazine_, has been Out There,and he thus records some of his impressions in the trail of the war:The war under the earth is a most extraordinary thing. In the main, thearmy you see in the war zone is not a combatant army. It is the army ofsupply. The real fighters you seldom set eyes on unless you go and lookfor them. And, generally speaking, the ghastliness of war is carried onbeneath the earths level.Given time, the _Boche_ will take a lot of beating as an earth delver.At one spot on the Somme I went into a veritable underground town,where, till the British deluge overtook them, three thousand of thetoughest Huns the Kaiser had put into his line lived and thrived. Theyhad sets of compartments there, these men, with drawing-rooms complete,even to the piano, kitchen, bathroom, and electric light, and I wastold that there was one place where you could have your photographtaken, or buy a pair of socks! Every visitor down the stepsexcept theBritishwas required to turn a handle three times, which pumped airinto the lower regions. If you descended without pumping down yourportion of fresh air you were guilty of bad manners.Anything more secure has not been invented since Adam. But thisimpregnable city fell last year, as all things must fall before thesteady pressing back of British infantry.The writer tells of discovering in an old French town that was thenunder fire a shell-torn building on which were displayed two signsreading First Aid Post and Barber Shop. He says:When I dived inside I saw one man having his arm dressed, for he hadbeen hit by a piece of shell in the square, and in a chair a few yardsaway a Tommy having a shave. Coming in as a stranger, I was informedthat if I didnt want a haircut or a shave, or hadnt a healthy woundto dress, this was not the Empire music hall, so I had better hop it.It was in hopping it that I got astride an unseen fiber of Britishcommunication. I went into the adjoining ruins of a big building. Asingle solitary statue stood aloof in a devastation of tumbled brickand stone. Then, as I was stepping from one mound of rubble to another,as one steps from rock to rock on the seashore, I heard voices beneathme. The wreckage was so complete, so unspeakably complete, that humanvoices directly under my feet seemed at first startling and indefinite.Moreover, to add to my confusion, I heard the baa-ing of sheep,likewise under the earth. But I could see no hole, no outlet.With the average curiosity of the Britisher I searched around till Idiscovered a small hole, a foot in diameter, maybe, and a Tommys faceframed in it laughing up at me.Hello! he said.I pulled up, bewildered, and looked at him.What in Heavens name are you doing in there? I asked.Were telephones.... Got any matches?I heard sheep, I informed him.And what if you did? Got them matches?I tossed him a box. He dived into darkness, and I heard him rejoicingwith his pals because hed found some one whod got a light. It meantalmost as much to them as being relieved.So here was a British unit hidden where the worst Hun shell could neverfind it, and, what was more, here was the food ready to kill when,during some awkward days, the _Boche_ shells cut off supplies.Then look on this picture of a war-desolated country where nature hasbeen stupidly scarred by Teuton ruthlessness, and rubble-heaps aremarked by boards bearing the name of the village that had stood there:The desert was never more lonely than those vast tracts of land thearmies have surged over, and this loneliness and silence are more acutebecause of the suggestions of life that have once been there. It isimpressive, awe-inspiring, this silence, like that which follows storm.Clear away to the horizon no hedge or tree appears, all landmarkshave gone, hills have been planed level by the sheer blast of shells.Here is a rubble-heap no higher than ones shoulders where a churchhas stood, and the graves have opened beneath pits of fire to makenew graves for the living. Patches of red powder, washed by manyrains, with a few broken bricks among them, mark the places wherehouses, big and small, once rested. To these rubble-heaps, whichwere once villages, the inhabitants will come back one day, and theywill scarcely know the north from the south. Indeed, if it werenot for the fact that each rubble-heap bears a board whereon thename of the village is written, in order to preserve the site, theywould never find their way there at all, for the earth they knew hasbecome a strange country. Woods are mere patches of brown stumpsknee-highstumps which, with natures life restricted, are trying tobreak into leaf again at odd spots on the trunks where leaves nevergrew before. Mametz Wood and Trone Wood appear from a short distance asmere scrabblings in the earth.The ground which but a few months ago was blasted paste andpulverization has now under the suns of summer thrown up weedgrowth that is creeping over the earth as if to hide its hurt. Wildconvolvulus trails cautiously across the remnants of riven trenches,and levers itself up the corners of sand bags. In this tangle the shellholes are so close that they merge into each other.The loneliness of those Somme fields! No deserts of the world can showsuch unspeakable solitude.One comes from the Somme to the freed villages as one might emergefrom the desert to the first outposts of human life at a township onthe deserts rim. Still there are no trees on the sky-line; they haveall been cut down carefully and laid at a certain angle beside thestumps just as a platoon of soldiers might ground their arms. For theGerman frightfulness is a methodical affair, not aroused by the heat ofbattle, but coolly calculated and senseless. Of military importance ithas none.In these towns evacuated by the Germans life is slowly beginning tostir again and to pick up the threads of 1914. People who have livedthere all through the deluge seem but partially aware as yet that theyare free. And some others are returning hesitatingly.Mr. Flower notes with interest the temperamental change that has beenwrought by the war in the man from twenty to thirty-five years old. Tothe older ones it all is only a beastly uncomfortable nuisance, andwhen it is over they will go back to their usual avocations. Here isthe general view of the middle-aged men in the battle line:What are you going to do after the war? I asked one.I believe he thought I was joking, for he looked at me very curiously.Do? he echoed. Im going to do what any sane man of my age would do.Im going straight back to itback to work. This is just marking timein ones life, like having to go to a wedding on ones busiest mailday. Im not going to exploit the war as a means of getting a living,or emigrate, or do any fool thing like that. Im going straight backto my office, I am. I know exactly where I turned down the page of mysales book when I came outit was page seventy-nineand Im going tostart again on page eighty.With the younger men it is different. It has struck a new spark in themand fired a spirit of adventure. There are those who even enjoy thewar, and to whom one day, when peace comes, life will seem very tame.The writer cites this case:He is quite a young man, and what this adventurous fellow was before hetook his commission and went to the war I do not pretend to know. Buthe displayed most conspicuous bravery and usefulness from the hour hefetched up at the British front.One day he was very badly wounded in the back, and as soon as he nearedconvalescence he became restive and wished to return to his men, andhe did return before he should have done. The doctor knew he wouldfinish a deal quicker when he got back to the lines than he would in ahospital.There are some rare creatures who are built that way. Shortly afterwardhe was wounded again, and while walking to the dressing station waswounded a third time, on this occasion very badly.He stuck it at the hospital as long as he couldthen one day hedisappeared. No one saw him go. He had got out, borrowed a horse, andridden back to his lines.The absence of the fighting men from the view of an observer of amodern battle strongly impressed the writer, who says:Most men who come upon a modern battle for the first time would confessto finding it not what they expected. For the old accepted idea ofbattle is hard to eliminate. One has become accustomed to looking forgreat arrays of fighters ready for the bout, with squadrons of cavalrywaiting somewhere beyond a screen of trees, and gunsartfully hiddengunsbellying smoke from all points of the compass. The battle picturesin our galleries, the lead soldiers we played with as children andengaged in visible conflict, have kept up the illusion.You know before you come to it that it is not so in this war, but thisbattle of hidden men pulls you up with a jolt as not being quite whatyou expected to see. You feel almost as if you had been robbed ofsomething.The first battle I saw on the western front I watched for two and ahalf hours, and during that time (with the exception of five men whodebouched from a distant wood like five ants scuttling out of a nest ofmoss, to be promptly shot down) I did not see a man at all. The battlemight have been going on in an enormous house and I standing on theroof trying to see it.But if there is little or nothing to be seen of the human agents thatdirect the devastating machines of war during a battle, the scene ofthe field after the fight has been waged discloses all the horrorthat has not been visible to the eye of an observer. Mr. Flower thusdescribes one section of the theater of war in France:Our car rushes down a long descending road, and is driven at breakneckspeed by one of those drivers with which the front is strewn, who areso accustomed to danger that to dance on the edge of it all the time isthe breath of life. To slow down to a rational thirty miles an hour isto them positive pain; to leap shell holes at fifty or plow across anewly made road of broken brick at the same velocity is their ecstasy.And one of the greatest miracles of the war is the cars that stand itwithout giving up the unequal contest by flying into half a hundredfragments.But this road is tolerable even for a war road, and it runs parallelwith a long down which has been scrabbled out here and there intopatches of white by the hands of men. It is Notre Dame de Lorette, nohigher than an average Sussex down, mark you, and lower than most.Yet I was told that on this patch of down over a hundred thousand menhave died since the war began. Running at right angles at its foot isa lower hill, no higher than the foothill to a Derbyshire height, butknown to the world now as Vimy Ridge. And this road leads you into asmall section of France, a section of four square miles or so, everyyard of which is literally soaked with the blood of men.On the right is Souchez, and the wood of Souchez all bare stumps andbrokenness; here the sugar refinery, which changed hands eight times,and is now no more than a couple of shot-riddled boilers, tilted at oddangles with some steel girders twirled like sprung wire rearing overthem; and around this conglomeration a pile of brick powder. You wonderwhat there was here worth dying for, since a rat would fight shy of theplace for want of a square inch of shelter. And where is Souchez River?you ask, for Souchez River is now as famous as the Amazon. Here it is,a sluggish sort of brook, crawling in and out of broken tree-trunksthat have been blasted down athwart it, running past banks a foothigh or so, a river you could almost step across, and which would bewell-nigh too small to name in Devonshire.We leave our cars under a bank and come on down through the dead jetsamof the village of Ablain St. Nazaire. The old church is still hereon the left, the only remnant of a respectable rate-paying hamlet.The remaining portion of its square tower is clear and white, for thestonework has been literally skinned by flying fragments of steel, tillit is about as clean as when it was built.We reach the foot of Vimy Ridge and climb up. Here, some one told me,corn once grew, but now it is sodden chalk, pasted and mixed as if bysome giant mixing machine with the shattered weapons of war.Broken trenchesthe German front linein places remain and extend a fewyards, only to disappear into the rubble where the tide swept over them.As we climb, the earth beneath my foot suddenly gives way, lettingme down with a jerk to the hip, and opening up a hole through whichI peer and see a dead _Boche_ coiled up, his faceor so I suspect itwasresting upon his arm to protect it from some oncoming horror.We climb on up. We drop into pits and grope out of them again, pastedwith the whiteness of chalk. From somewhere behind us a howitzer isthrowing shells over our heads, shells that come on and pass with therush of a train pitching itself recklessly out of control. We listen tothe clamor as it goes ona couple of miles or soseparating itself fromthe ill assortment of snarling and smashing and breaking and gruntingthat rises from the battlefield.As they climbed the ridge the guns seemed to be muffled until they gotbeyond the shelter of Notre Dame de Lorette. Then, says the writer:We suddenly appeared to tumble into a welter of sound. And the higherwe climbed Vimy, the louder the tumult became. Aunty, throwing overheavy stuff, had but a few moments before been the only near thing inthe battle. Now the contrast was such as if we had been suddenly pushedinto the middle of the battle. The air was full of strange, harshnoises and crackings and cries. And the earth before us was alive withsubdued flame flashes and growing bushes of smoke.Five miles away, Lens, its church spires adrift in eddies of smoke,appeared very unconscious of it all. Just showing on the horizon wasDouai, and I wondered what forests of death lay waiting between thoseLens churches and the Douai outlines where the ground was sunken andmysterious under the haze.Here, then, was the panorama of battle. Never a man in sight, butthe entire earth goaded by some vast invisible force. Clots of smokeof varying colors arrived from nowhere, died away, or were smudgedout by other clots. A big black pall hung over Givenchy like thesounding-board over a cathedral pulpit. A little farther on the villageof Angres seemed palisaded with points of flame. Away to the right thelong, straight road from Lens to Arras showed clear and strong withouta speck of life upon it.No life anywhere, no human thing moving. And yet one believed thatunder a thin crust of earth the whole forces of Europe were strugglingand throwing up sound.Among all the combatants there is a desire for peace, says Mr. Flower,who found a striking example of the sentiment of the _Boche_ in whathad been the crypt of the Bapaume cathedral. He writes:I saw scores of skulls of those who were dead many decades before thewar rolled over Europe, and on the skull of one I saw scribbled inindelible pencil:_Dass der Friede kommen mag_(Hurry up, Peace.)_Otto Trbner._Now, Otto Trbner may be a very average representative of his type. Andmaybe Otto Trbners head now bears a passing likeness to the skull hescribbled on in vandal fashion before he evacuated Bapaume. But whetheror no, he is, metaphorically speaking, a straw which shows the play ofthe wind.SOME STUNTTRY ITSergeant (drilling awkward squad)Company! Attention company, lift upyour left leg and hold it straight out in front of you!One of the squad held up his right leg by mistake. This brought hisright-hand companions left leg and his own right leg close together.The officer, seeing this, exclaimed angrily:And who is that blooming galoot over there holding up both legs?WHEN THE HUN QUIT SMOKINGTommy IThats a top-hole pipe, Jerry. Where dye get it?Tommy IIOne of them German Huns tried to take me prisoner an Iinerited it from im.WHEN ACE LUFBERY BAGGED NO. 13LIEUT. GERVAIS RAOUL LUFBERY, an Ace of the Lafayette Escadrille,has brought down his thirteenth enemy airplane. The German machine wasfirst seen by Lufberywho was scoutingseveral hundred yards above him.By making a wide detour and climbing at a sharp angle he maneuveredinto a position above the enemy plane at an altitude of five thousandyards and directly over the trenches. The German pilot was killed byLufberys first shot and the machine started to fall. The gunner inthe German plane quickly returned the fire, even as he was falling tohis death. One of his bullets punctured the radiator and lodged in thecarburetor of Lufberys plane, and he was forced to descend.To a writer in the Philadelphia _Public Ledger_ Lufbery describes thetype of young man America will need for her air fleet. He says:It will take the cream of the American youth between the ages ofeighteen and twenty-six to man Americas thousands of airplanes, andthe double cream of youth to qualify as chasers in the Republics newaerial army.Intensive and scientific training must be given this cream of youthupon which Americas welfare in the air must rest. Experience hasshown that for best results the fighting aviator should not be overtwenty-six years old or under eighteen. The youth under eighteen hasshown himself to be bold, but he lacks judgment. Men over twenty-sixare too cautious.The best air fighters, especially a man handling a chaser, mustbe of perfect physique. He must have the coolest nerve and be of atemperament that longs for a fight. He must have a sense of absoluteduty and fearlessness, the keenest sense of action and perfect sight togain the absolute feel of his machine.He must be entirely familiar with aerial acrobatics. The latterfrequently means life or death.Fighting twenty-two thousand feet in the air produces a heavy strainon the heart. It is vital, therefore, that this organ show not theslightest evidence of weakness. Such weakness would decrease theaviators fighting efficiency.The American boys who come over here for this work will be subject torapid and frequent variations in altitude. It is a common occurrence todive vertically from six thousand to ten thousand feet with the motorpulling hard.Sharpness of vision is imperative. Otherwise the enemy may escape orthe aviator himself will be surprised or mistake a friendly machine fora hostile craft. The differences are often merely insignificant colorsand details.Americas aviators must be men who will be absolute masters ofthemselves under fire, thinking out their attacks as their fightprogresses.Experience has shown that the chaser men should weigh under onehundred eighty pounds. Americans from the ranks of sportyouths whohave played baseball, polo, football, or have shot and participated inother sportswill probably make the best chasers.Lufbery is a daring aviator and has already been decorated with fourmilitary medals awarded for aerial bravery. His life has been full ofadventure even before he thought of becoming an airman. _The Ledger_says:Fifteen years ago the aviator, then seventeen years old, left his homein Wallingford, Conn., and set out to see the world. First he went toFrance, the land of his progenitors. He visited Paris, Marseilles,Bourges, and other cities. Then he went to Africa.In Turkey he worked for some time in a restaurant. His plan was tovisit a city, get a job that would keep him until he had seen what hedesired, and then depart to a new field of adventure. In this manner hetraveled through Europe, Africa, and South America. In 1906 he returnedto his home in Connecticut. The following year he went to New Orleans,enlisted in the United States army, and was sent to the PhilippineIslands. Two years later, upon being mustered out, Lufbery visitedJapan and China, exploring those countries thoroughly. Then he wentto India and worked as a ticket collector on a Bombay railroad. Whileengaged at this occupation he kicked out of the railway station one ofthe most prominent citizens of Bombay. The latter had insisted thatLufbery say sir to him. The aviator always did have a hot temper.Lufberys next occupation, and the business to which he has remainedattached ever since, was had at Saigon, Cochin China, where he met MarcPourpe, a young French aviator, who was giving flying exhibitions inAsia. He needed an assistant. Lufbery never had seen an airplane, buthe applied for the job and got it.The two men gave exhibitions over the French provinces in Indo-China.After one of these flights the King of Cambodia was so pleased that hepresented each aviator with a decoration that entitled him to a guardof honor on the streets of any town within the realm.Lufbery and Pourpe, now inseparablenew airplane. War was declared, andLufbery, who was anxious to be withbut was told that he must enter theFrench citizen.comrades, went to Paris to get aPourpe volunteered as an aviator.his friend, tried also to enlist,Foreign Legion, as he was not aPourpe was shot to death during one of his wonderful air feats; and,wishing to avenge the death of his friend, Lufbery asked to be trainedas an airplane pilot. His request was granted and in the summer of 1916he went to the front as a member of the American Escadrille. It was onAugust 4 of that year that he brought down his third enemy plane, andsoon afterward was decorated with the Military Medal and the French WarCross, with the following citation:LUFBERY, RAOUL, sergeant with the escadrille No. 124; a model ofskill, _sang froid_, and courage. Has distinguished himself by numerouslong-distance bombardments and by the daily combats which he deliversto enemy airplanes. On July 31 he attacked at short range a group offour German airplanes. He shot one of them down near our lines. OnAugust 4, 1916, he succeeded in bringing down a second one.Two or more combats a day in the air came to be a common occurrencewith Lufbery, and many times he returned to the base with his machinefull of holes and his clothing cut by German bullets.When Lufbery heard of the death of Kiffin Rockwell he ordered hisgasoline tank refilled and soared into the sky, in the hope of avengingthe death of his comrade. But no enemy machine was to be found. OfLufberys further exploits _The Ledger_ says:During the bombardment of the Mauser factories on October 12, 1916,the intrepid aviator brought down a three-manned _aviatik_. This wascounted as his fifth official victory and gained him additional honors.It was during this raid that Norman Prince was mortally wounded.After the escadrille had moved to the Somme battlefield, Lufbery, onNovember 9 and 10, brought down two more German planes. These, however,fell too far within their own lines to be placed to his officialcredit. On December 27, 1916, he nearly lost his life in bringing downhis sixth flier of the enemy. Four bullets riddled the machine close tohis body. For this victory he received the Cross of the Legion of Honor.In March of this year he was officially credited with bringing downhis seventh German aircraft. The others have been sent hurtling to theearth at different times since then.Lufbery is a quiet, level-headed man. His particular friend in theLafayette Escadrille of American fliers is Sergeant Paul Pavelka, whoalso hails from Connecticut, and who has himself seen quite a bit ofthe world. Lufbery has his own special methods of attacking enemyairplanes; he is cool, cautious, and brave, and an exceptionally fineshot. When he was a soldier in the United States army he won and heldthe marksmanship medal of his regiment. He has been cited in armyorders twice since August, 1916.HORSE AND HORSEAn anemic elderly woman, who looked as if she might have as muchmaternal affection as an incubator, sized up a broad-shouldered cockneywho was idly looking into a window on the Strand in London, and in arasping voice said to him:My good man, why arent you in the trenches? Arent you willing to doanything for your country?Turning around slowly, he looked at her a second and repliedcontemptuously:Move on, you slacker! Wheres your war-baby?WHY TOMMY JOINED THE CHURCHTommy Atkins pleaded exemption from church parade on the groundthat he was an agnostic. The sergeant-major assumed an expression ofinnocent interest.Dont you believe in the Ten Commandments? he mildly asked the boldfreethinker.Not one, sir, was the reply.What! Not the rule about keeping the Sabbath?No, sir.Ah, well, youre the very man Ive been looking for to scrub out thecanteen.LIFE AT THE FRONTHERE are letters from the boys at the front telling the folks at homeof their experiences, humorous, pathetic, and tragic. They presentpictures of war life with an intimate touch that brings out all thestriking detail. James E. Parshall, of Detroit, is serving with theAmerican ambulance unit in the French army. The Detroit _SaturdayNight_, which prints his letter, believes that the drive referredto by him was either on the Aisne front or in the Verdun sector. Theletter says in part:DEAR PEOPLE: Sherman was right! I have been debating with myself aboutwhat to say in this letter. I think Ill tell you all about it and addthat if by the time this reaches you you have heard nothing to thecontrary, I am all O. K. You see, we are in a big offensive which willbe over in about ten days. As a rule its not nearly as bad as this.The day before yesterday we arrived at our base, about seven miles fromthe lines. It is a little town which has been pretty well shot up, andis shelled now about once a week. In the afternoon one driver from eachcar was taken up and shown the roads and posts. The coin flopped for me.The roads to the front run mostly through deep woods. These woods arefull of very heavy batteries which are continually shelling the enemy,and, in turn, we are continuously being sought out by the _Boche_gunners. As a result, its some hot place to drive through. Also, as aresult of the continuous shelling, the roads are very bad.[Here there is a break in the letter, which begins again after fourdays.]I was so nervous when I started this letter that I had to quit, andthis is the first time since then that I have felt like writing. Agreat deal has happened, but in order not to mix everything up Illstart in where I left off.Our first post from the base is in a little village which is entirelydemolished. It is in a little valley, and the two big marine guns thatare stationed there draw a very disquieting _Boche_ fire about fivetimes a day regularly. The next post is at a graveyard in the woods.There are no batteries in the immediate vicinity, and so it is quiet,but not very cheerful. (Thats where I am now, on reserve.)The third post out is where we got our initiation. It was a hot one!Right next to the _abri_ is a battery of three very large mortars.Besides these there are several batteries of smaller guns. When we cameup they were all going at full tilt. In addition, the _Boches_ had justgot the range and the shells were exploding all around us. As we jumpedout of the car and ran for the _abri_ two horses tied to a tree aboutfifty feet from us were hit and killed. We waited in the _abri_ tillthe bombardment calmed a bit. When we came out two more horses weredead and a third kicking his last.From here we walked about a half mile to the mostthat road. Ill never forget that walk! The noiseshells passing overhead made a continuous scream.would hear the distinctive screech of an incomingwould fall flat on his stomach in the road.advanced post onwas terrific and theQuite frequently weshell. Then everyoneBelieve me, we were a scared bunch of boys! I was absolutely terrified,and I dont think I was the only one. Well, we eventually got back tothe car and to the base.At twelve oclock that night the _Boches_ started shelling the town.You cant imagine the feeling it gives one in the pit of ones stomachto hear the gun go off in the distance, then the horrible screech ofthe onrushing shell, and finally the deafening explosion that shakesthe plaster down on your cot. Our chiefs were at the outposts, and noneof us knew enough to get out and go to the _abri_, so we just lay thereshivering and sweating a cold sweat through the whole bombardment.Gosh, but I was a scared boy!Of a gas attack he writes: We had to wear those suffocating gas masksfor five hours, and then:About three oclock in the morning the car ahead of us at the poststarted out in their masks and in the pitch of blackness with a load.In about a half hour one of the boys on the car staggered back intothe _abri_, half gassed, and said that they were in the ditch down ina little valley full of gas. So we had to go down and get their load.Believe me, it was some ticklish and nerve-racking job to transferthree groaning _couches_ from a car in the ditch at a perilous angleto ours, in a cloud of gas, and with the shells bursting uncomfortablynear quite frequently.We finally got them in and got started. We got about a half milefarther on to the top of the hill going down into what is known asDeath Valley. In the valley was a sight that was most discouraging.Seven or eight horses were lying in the road, gassed, some of themstill kicking. A big _camion_ was half in the ditch and half on theroad. An ammunition caisson that had tried to get past the blockade bygoing down through the ditch was stuck there.Remember that all this was just at the break of dawn, in a cloudof gas, with the French batteries making a continuous roar and anoccasional _Boche_ shell making every one flop on his stomach.How we ever got through there I really couldnt tell you. My partnertold the Frenchmen who were vainly trying to straighten out the messthat we had a couple of dying men in the car, so they yanked a fewhorses to one side, drove the _camion_ a little farther into the ditch,and, by driving over a horses head and another ones legs, I gotthrough.On the whole, Ive been quite lucky. Some of the other boys have hadsome really awful experiences.About the day after tomorrow we go _en repos_, and its sure going toseem good to eat and sleep, without getting up and sprinting for an_abri_ or throwing ones self, and incidentally a plate of good food,on the ground.We saw a very interesting thing the other day. We were sitting out infront of our cantonment at the base. About a quarter of a mile from uswas one of the big observation balloons or sausages. Suddenly, frombehind a cloud, just above the balloon a _Boche_ aeroplane darted out.The _Boche_ and the balloonist both fired their machine guns at eachother simultaneously. The aeroplane wobbled a little and started tovolplane to earth. The balloon burst into flames. The observer droppedabout fifty feet, and then his parachute opened and he sailed slowlydown. When the _Boche_ landed they found him dead with a bullet in hischest. It was quite an exciting sight.A battle between two planes is quite common, and one can look up atalmost any time and see the aircraft bombs bursting around some _Boche_thousands of feet in the air.At last the drive is over, and the letter describes the prisoners, atwhose youth he expresses surprise. But they are happy, though nearlystarvedhappy to be prisoners. The writer says:I have seen hundreds of _Boche_ prisoners, four thousand having beentaken in the attack. We see them march past the _poste-de-secours_about half an hour after they have been captured. I have talked withseveral of them and received lots of interesting information. They areall very happy, but nearly starved. Two slightly wounded ones werebrought into the post the other day. A dirty little crust of bread waslying on the ground. They both made a dive for it. They are all awfullyyoung, mostly between seventeen and twenty-one.One of them told me, among other things, that by next spring Germanywould be absolutely finished. A soldiers fare, he said, was one poundof poor bread and one liter of wine a day, except during a heavyattack, when they are given some thin soup. The civilians, he said,were still worse off, especially in the cities.An Iowa boy, a Y. M. C. A. secretary, who is in the _camion_ servicein the French army, tells how he arrived in Paris, how he happenedto become a soldier of France, and some other interesting details,including the amount of his salary$1.20 per month! He found theambulance servicewhich he had intended to joincrowded, and was toldthat there would be some delay in getting cars. Even if he did get acar he was told that the chances were against his seeing any action, ashe might be attached to an inactive division. He was therefore urged tojoin the _camion_ servicethe ammunition truck organizationin whichhe was assured he would be kept busy day and night as long as he couldstand it. There was no camouflage about that. In order to get into thisservice, one must join the French army, and after thinking the matterover for a few days the Iowa lad joined the French colors with agroup of American college boys. Here is his letter in part as printedin _Wallaces Farmer_, of Des Moines:So here I am enrolled as a member of the French army, carrying a Frenchgun, gas mask, and helmet, and eating French army rations. We arepaid for our services the sum of $1.20 a month. We underwent a weekof intensive training, being drilled in the French manual and armymovements, and spending our leisure hours in building roads.Our sector was active when we arrived at the camp, which is situated afew miles back of the lines; so we were put to work almost immediately.We make two kinds of trips, day trips and night trips; and perhaps if Itell you about my first experience in each it will give you an idea ofthe character.We were called at 3:30 A.M., so as to be ready to leave at fouroclock. Our convoy went to the nearby loading station and loadedup with 468 rounds of ammunition for the French 75 guns, whichcorrespond to our three-inch guns. We carted these up to the dumpingstation near the batteries, and then came back. Nothing excitinghappened, and we arrived in camp about 7 P.M. That night I was on guardduty during the last watch, and the following morning we worked ourcars. The rough roads and the heavy loads are very hard on the cars aswell as on the drivers, so that we must go over the cars every day tokeep them in the pink of condition.That afternoon we got our orders to leave at 4 P.M. We loaded withbarbed wire, iron posts, and lumber. The man in charge at the yardswarned us that the wind was exactly right for Fritz to send over a bitof gas. So we hung our gas masks about our necks. It takes only thirtyseconds for the gas to get in its work on you, and you must be preparedto put on the mask quickly. We started for the front at dark; no lightswere allowed. We traveled along screened roads, by columns of artillerywagons, and with infantry moving in every direction, and with staffcars and ambulances dodging in and out for several miles. Finally weturned off on a narrow road which bore the marks of having received ashelling, and went through towns which had been leveled absolutely tothe ground by shell fire, and passed an endless chain of dugouts, untilwe came to our destination.Most of our cars were unloaded and drawn up on a long, straight roadjust outside of the station, when our batteries opened up on theGermans. They certainly made some noise. They had not fired manyrounds before Fritz began to retaliate, and then it was our turn toworry. His first shells went wild over our heads, but he got the rangeof the roads on which our trucks were packed, and very soon a shellstruck about half a mile down the road. The next shell came closer. Hewas getting our range and coming straight up the road with his shrapnel.By this time the remaining cars were unloaded and had swung into lineready to leave. Just as a big shrapnel burst about fifty yards away,our lieutenant gave orders to start, and to start quickly. Believeme, brother, we did! The shells were screaming over our heads, and Iwas just about scared to death. I should not have worried about thescreaming shells, because they are harmless as a barking dog. It iswhen they stop screaming that you want to get worried.Then he describes briefly the horrors of the war and expresses somedoubt as to mans status being much above that of the beast. He says:When you see the fields laid waste, depopulated, battered, anddesolated, and people in the last stages of poverty, you doubt whetherman is nearer to God than is the most cruel of beasts. It is trulya war for liberty, for liberty in politics, ideals, and standardsof living. I believe that any one here who is at all sensitive orresponsive to his environment feels as I do.THE FIDDLERS TRUCE AT ARRASTWENTY miles away the Prussians and the Canadians were struggling inthe dust and mud for the battered suburbs of Lens, but the trencheswhich were enjoying the Fiddlers Truce were not marked to be takenby the staff officers of either army, and the only sign of war wasthe growling of the big guns far away. Here, too, Canadian opposedPrussian, but they did not fight until the death of Henry Schulman,killed by a most regrettable accident. He was only a private and notsufficiently famous as a violinist to have his death recorded in themusical journals of the world, but along the trenches his taking off isstill being discussed as one of the real tragedies of the war.Late in the fall, after the Somme offensive was over, three Canadianregiments arrived on the Arras front and dug themselves into thebrown mud to wait until spring made another advance practicable. Twohundred feet away were three Prussian regiments. There was little realfighting. When the routine of trench life became too monotonous acompany would blaze away at the other trenches for a few minutes. Atnight it was so quiet that conversation in one trench carried over tothe other, and there was a good deal of good-natured kidding back andforth. The Canadians were especially pleased by the nightly concerts ofthe Germans, and applauded heartily the spirited fiddling of one hiddenmusician. The rest of the story can best be told by Corporal HarrySeaton, in the New York _Evening Mail_:One night we held up a piece of white cloth as a sign of truce,he said. With permission of our colonel I called out and asked the_Boche_ if we couldnt have a bit of a concert. It was agreed, andSchulmanthat was the fiddlers namecrawled out from his trench. Oneor two of our Johnnies crawled out, too, just as a sign of good faith.Believe me, every one enjoyed the rest of that evening, and whenthings grew quiet next day somebody yelled for the fiddler to strikeup a tune. He was a cobbler in Quebec before the war, and two of ourJohnnies knew him and his wife and kids. It didnt take much coaxingafter that, and he came out on the strip of No Mans Land and playedevery night.On the 23d of February we were ordered on to another part of the fieldand another regiment took our old trenches. Of course, in the hurry ofdeparture nobody thought of Schulman.That night he brought his stool out as usual, but before he coulddraw bow across the strings the strangers filled him full of lead. Ofcourse, they didnt know.The chaplain told us the story next day and we took up a collection tosend back to the family in Berlin. I wonder if they ever got it!HARRY LAUDER DOES HIS BITTHE Y. M. C. A. and Harry Lauder are two social forces that one doesnot spontaneously connect up. But the former was the agency thatbrought the singer into the fighting camps of France, not only tohearten the soldiers there, but to pay a touching tribute to thesacrifice of his only son. Dr. George Adam, of Edinburgh, who went withhim, gives an account of the trip in _Association Men_ (New York), theofficial organ of the Y. M. C. A. He also speaks of service under thebanner of the Red Triangle that Mr. Lauder has rendered which bringsthe singing comedian before us in a manner hitherto unsuspected:On a recent Sunday, although working at full pressure during the weekin the play Three Cheers at the Shaftesbury Theater, he gave up hisrest day gladly to go away down to two of the great Canadian camps withme.Some one in London asked the little man why he was going down to thecamps. Why not join them in a quiet week-end on the river? Laudersreply was as quaint as usual: The boys cant get up to town to seeme, so I am off to the camps to see them. A right royal time he gavethem, too. Picture ten thousand men in a dell on the rolling downswith a little platform in the center and there Lauder singing the oldfavorites you have heard so often and the soldiers love so muchRockedin the Cradle of the Deep, Bantry Bay, The Laddies Who Fought andWon, Childrens Home, and many more.This was not all; his soul must have been stirred by the sight ofso many dear, brave men, for when the meeting seemed over, Lauderbegan to speak to the soldiers. And a real speech he made, full ofimagery, poetry, and fire. May I just tell you how he closed? Oneevening in the gloaming in a northern town I was sitting by my parlorwindow when I saw an old man with a pole on his shoulder come along.He was a lamp-lighter, and made the lamp opposite my window dance intobrightness. Interested in his work, I watched him pass along until thegloaming gathered round and I could see him no more. However, I knewjust where he was, for other lamps flashed into flame. Having completedhis task, he disappeared into a side street. Those lamps burned onthrough the night, making it bright and safe for those who should comebehind him. An avenue of lights through the traffic and dangers of thecity.With passionate earnestness Lauder cried: Boys, think of that manwho lit the lamp, for you are his successors, only in a much noblerand grander way. You are not lighting for a few hours the darkness ofpassing night. You are lighting an avenue of lights that will make itsafe for the generations of all time. Therefore, you must be earnestto do the right. Fight well and hard against every enemy without andwithin, and those of your blood who come after you will look up proudlyin that light of freedom and say, The sire that went before me lit alamp in those heroic days when Britain warred for right. The firstburst of illumination that the world had was in the lamp lit by Jesus,or rather he was the Light himself. He said truly, I am the Lightof the world. You are in his succession. Be careful how you bearyourselves. Quit ye like men! Be strong!The story of the effort made to induce the singing comedian to goout there touches on his well-known human frailty, in this casetriumphantly overcome:During a visit to France, and in conversation with one in high commandin the army, talk turned to the high place Lauder had in the affectionsof his countrymen, for we were both Scots. A strong desire wasexpressed that he should be got out among the soldiers in the battleline just to give them the cheer he knows so well how to impart. Ipromised to endeavor to arrange it, with trepidation, you may be sure,for you know what is so often said of Lauder and his money. However,with courage in both hands I asked him to give up the week that meantmany thousands of dollars to go out to the boys.The request seemed to stagger him, and for a minute I felt I was tofail, but it was the good fortune to receive such a request that tookhis breath away. Give me a weeks notice and I go with you, and gladto go. I replied, I give you notice now. Whereupon he called to hismanager, Tom, I quit in a week; and he did, and off to the war zonehe went. My pen is unequal to the task of describing that wonderfultour and the amazing results of it. The men went wild with enthusiasmand joy wherever he went. One great meeting was apparently seen bysome German airmen, who communicated the information to one of theirbatteries of artillery. In the middle of a songwhiz, bang!went a bigshell very close at handso close, in fact, that pieces struck but afoot or two from where we both stood. There was a scatter and a scamperfor cover, and for three-quarters of an hour the Huns hammered theposition with two hundred big ones. When the bombardment ended, Lauderof the big-hearted Scotch courage must needs finish his concert.Another incident shows the heart of Harry Lauder as those who have onlyheard his rollicking songs will rejoice in.One day during our visit I was taking Harry to see the grave ofhis only child, Capt. John Lauder, of the Argyle and SutherlandHighlanders, as fine a lad as ever wore a kilt, and as good and brave ason as ever a father loved. As we were motoring swiftly along we turnedinto the town of Albert and the first sharp glance at the cathedralshowed the falling Madonna and Child. It was a startling and arrestingsight, and we got out to have a good look. The building is crowned by astatue of Mary holding out the child Jesus to the world; a German shellhad struck its base and it fell over, not to the ground, however, butat an acute angle out over the street.While we lingered, a bunch of soldiers came marching through, dustyand tired. Lauder asked the officer to halt his men for a rest and hewould sing to them. I could see that they were loath to believe it wasthe real Lauder until he began to sing.Then the doubts vanished and they abandoned themselves to the fullenjoyment of this very unexpected pleasure. When the singsong began theaudience would number about two hundred; at the finish of it easilymore than two thousand soldiers cheered him on his way.It was a strange send-off on the way that led to a gravethe grave ofa fathers fondest hopesbut so it was. A little way up the Bapaumeroad the car stopped and we clambered the embankment and away over theshell-torn field of Courcelette. Here and there we passed a littlecross which marked the grave of some unknown hero; all that was writtenwas A British Soldier. He spoke in a low voice of the hope-hungryhearts behind all those at home. Now we climbed a little ridge and herea cemetery and in the first row facing the battlefield the cross onLauders boys resting-place.The father leaned over the grave to read what was written there. Heknelt down; indeed, he lay upon the grave and clutched it, the whilehis body shook with the grief he felt.When the storm had spent itself he rose and prayed: O God, that Icould have but one request. It would be that I might embrace my laddiejust this once and thank him for what he has done for his country andhumanity.That was all, not a word of bitterness or complaint.On the way down the hill I suggested gently that the stress of such anhour made further song that day impossible.But Lauders heart is big and British. Turning to me with a flash inhis eye he said: George, I must be brave; my boy is watching and allthe other boys are waiting. I will sing to them this afternoon thoughmy heart break! Off we went again to another division of Scottishtroops.There, within the hour, he sang again the sweet old songs of love andhome and country, bringing all very near and helping the men to realizethe deeper what victory for the enemy would mean. Grim and determinedmen they were that went back to their dugouts and trenches, heartenedfor the task of war for human freedom by Harry Lauder. Harrys littlekilted figure came and went from the war zone, but his influenceremains, the influence of a heroic heart.CAUSE FOR GRIEVANCEA wounded soldier explained his grievance to his nurse:You see, old Smith was next to me in the trenches. Now, the bulletthat took me in the shoulder and laid me out went into im and madea bit of a flesh-wound in his arm. Of course Im glad he wasnt urtbad. But hes stuck to my bullet and given it his girl. Now, I dontthink thats fair. Id a right to it. Id never give a girl o mine asecond-and bullet.DOUBLY ANNOYINGA German spy caught redhanded was on his way to be shot.I think you English are brutes, he growled, to march me through thisrain and slush.Well, said the Tommy who was escorting him, what about me? I haveto go back in it.KING GEORGE UNDER FIREKING GEORGE and Queen Mary have been seeing war at close range.Together they made an eleven days visit to the British troops inFrance, and while there the King experienced the sensation of beingunder fire. While the Queen devoted herself to the hospitals and thesick and wounded, the King was shown all the latest devices for killingand maiming the enemy. It was soon after seeing what would happen tothe Teutons that he decided to drop his Teutonic name and become Mr.Windsor. Says a dispatch from the British headquarters in the New York_Sun_:On the first morning after his arrival in France, King George visitedthe Messines Ridge sector of the front, climbing the ridge while theGermans were shelling the woods just to his left. He inspected theground over which the Irish troops, men from the north and the south,fought so gallantly side by side during the taking of the MessinesRidge, and where Major William Redmond fell. While the King was doingthis the Germans began shelling places on the ridge which he had leftbut half an hour before. The King visited also Vimy Ridge, from whichhe could see the German lines about Lens, with British shells breakingon them.For the benefit of the King a special show was staged that he mightwitness that black art of frightfulness which has steadily increasedthe horrors of war since the day when the enemy let loose clouds ofpoisoned gas upon the soldiers and civilians in Ypres, says PhilipGibbs in the Philadelphia _Public Ledger_:As soon as the King arrived on the field there was a sound of rushingair, and there shot forth a blast of red flame out of black smoke toa great distance and with a most terrifying effect. It came from animproved variety of flame projector. Then the King saw the projectionof burning oil, burst out in great waves of liquid fire. A battalionof men would be charred like burned sticks if this touched them fora second. There was another hissing noise, and there rolled verysluggishly over the field a thick, oily vapor, almost invisible as itmixed with the air, and carrying instant death to any man who shouldtake a gulp of it. To such a thing have all of us come in this war forcivilization.The most spectacular show here was the most harmless to human life,being a new form of smoke barrage to conceal the movement of troops onthe battlefield.From this laboratory of the black art the King went to one of thosefields where the machinery of war is beautiful, rising above theugly things of this poor earth with light and grace, for this was anair-drome. As he came up, three fighting planes of the fastest Britishtype went up in chase of an imaginary enemy. They arose at an amazingspeed and shot across the sky-line like shadows racing from the sun.When they came back those three boys up there seemed to go a littlemad and played tricks in the air with a kind of joyous carelessnessof death. They tumbled over and over, came hurtling